What People Wish They Soon Believe
by McMuffinDragon
Summary: Trapped in the Kalmar Union, Norway is able to find a little solace in the stories of past great men. slight Norway/Finland


Norway could remember when they all lived together in Denmark's house. House was an incorrect word; Denmark lived in a castle at the time. A cold, stone affair, designed to hinder and stifle any soul. The nations in their union, if it could so be called, were sequestered into the northern wing. It held a small dining hall, some bedrooms, and a staircase directly to the bowels of the structure. Norway was yet uncertain as to whether it was simply a large labyrinthine cavern or if Denmark had a dungeon constructed there.

The reason he was lead to believe there was such a dungeon was that the day after most of Denmark and Sweden's fights, the Swede usually wasn't around to continue in the daily charade of not technically belonging to Denmark. Norway knew he was still a separate nation; he had an independent will. If that ever stopped, if he stopped rejecting Denmark, he knew he'd lose that.

-

"Don't listen to you?" Denmark barked down the table at what Sweden had muttered, "Whadya talkin' about? I listen plenty, right, Nor?" Norway rose from the table and exited the room, catching Denmark's final comment of, "Anyway, _you're_ the one who needs to listen to _me_ more."

He surveyed the empty halls of the northern wing. It was a large space for six people to occupy, five since Greenland had gone missing. Norway peered into the room of his single remaining brother. The young boy sat at a desk that was too big for him, scribbling away. "What are ya writing?" Norway asked, standing in the doorway.

Iceland jumped and glanced over his shoulder, "N-Nuthin'" he mumbled, leaning over his parchment.

"Can I read your nuthin'?" He came across the room and tried to peek at the writing.

"Nuh uh, it's not done, big brother," the boy shook his head furiously, "You can't read it yet." In his movement, Iceland let a sheet escape from his stack of papers. Norway was quick to snatch it. "No! Gimme that back!" The elder brother held the paper on high as he read:

_Earth in ruins meets mine eyes!  
I see hateful flames arise!  
All are doom'd to tread the road  
That leads to Hela's dark abode._

He frowned and lowered his hand slowly until Iceland grabbed the paper from him. "That's really something," Norway murmured. Without looking back at his brother, he drifted back into the hall. The sounds of a fight traveled through the corridors and followed Norway as he tried to escape them.

A couple of turns later, Norway found Finland kneeling on the floor with a brush in his hand and a bucket by his side, scrubbing feverishly. Finland had turned at the sound of footsteps. There was an unspoken hierarchy among the nations of which Finland was at the bottom. Denmark generally gave him completely useless physical labor such as scrubbing all the floors in the wing all on his own. Norway pitied him but not enough to speak up about it.

"Hello, Master Norway," the Finn smiled, kneeling back on his feet. He was always smiling; Norway couldn't figure out if he was being polite or stupid. He glanced at the puddle on the floor, and Finland's eyes followed his there. "Oh!" He was suddenly nervous, tossing down the brush, "I-I'm sorry, you want to pass by, of course." Before Norway could say anything, Finland threw himself down on the puddle. "Go ahead, sir," he looked up at Norway with that same grin.

"Get up," The Norwegian sighed, tapping the other lightly with his boot. Finland did so, and the front of his old gray shirt clung to him. "Tell me something good," Norway sighed.

Finland considered the command; "I'm almost done with the floors," he offered, picking up the brush again.

"No," Norway placed his foot on Finland's hand to still him, "Tell me a story." His voice wasn't harsh, but it also wasn't a casual tone. "A good one." Finland looked back down at the floor, then up at Norway's blank face, before he nodded. Norway took his boot away, and Finland sent the brush down.

He couldn't think of a proper story to tell; Norway probably didn't even want to hear any Finnish stories. Finland's knowledge of Norwegian tales was limited, but maybe one of those would make him happy.

"There was once born a man by the name of Olaf; I believe he was named after his grandfather. Either way, he was born far from the land of his family because his mother had to flee the land after her husband's death."

Norway sat leaning against the wall; he stared at one of the windows down the corridor where bright sunlight was streaming in. Finland narrated the life of Olaf as he traveled through the lands, battling, rising to be a successful Viking.

"And he was wed to Geyra, then," Finland paused and scratched his head, "I forget what happens next," he muttered.

"She died," Norway replied quietly, "and he went pillaging in England to overcome the grief."

"Really?" Finland played with the bristles on the brush, "I'd completely forgotten that part. Anyway, Olaf sailed to England, where he met a seer admit his plundering. The man told Olaf he would become a great king and would bring a new religion to his land after he was baptized."

Norway recalled the day of his own baptism, a brisk morning in the spring. Olaf himself had dragged him to the river, against all of Norway's struggle and protest, and the nation was blessed. It had certainly been better than the previous rule of Haakon. The light in the hall was fading as the sun was turning from the windows in the corridor.

Finland's voice had slowly gotten louder and louder as he related the Battle of Svold to Norway as though the nation hadn't been there himself. "And the Danes boarded Olaf's ship, and rather than be captured, Olaf and his men leaped overboard into the ocean." The words 'the end' hung in the air, but Finland didn't say them. He picked up the brush again.

"Aren't you gonna to finish the story?" Norway asked, resting his chin on his knees.

"That's the end, isn't it?" Finland glanced guiltily over his shoulder from his scrubbing, "He drowned, right?" He knew that had been a bad choice for a story; what kind of end was it when the hero died?

"No," the Norwegian replied sharply, "He got rescued by a ship from Vindland, and he sailed away." Norway's voice faded as the words were spoken in his head: _and he never came back to me._

He was only aware that he had started crying when Finland patted his arm gently. Norway glanced over to his smile.

"Finland!" a familiar Danish voice roared down the hall, reverberating off the stone as Denmark charged down toward them. He had a large cut in his temple as well as many bruises. "I told ya to clean floors."

"M-Master Denmark," Finland gasped, huddling against Norway, "I-I-" He gave a cry as the Dane seized a fistful of his fair hair and heaved the Finn onto his feet.

"And I find ya loafing," Denmark swung his foot out and kicked the wooden bucket down the hall, splattering the water everywhere. Finland stammered to give half an explanation, but Denmark threw him to the cold floor. "Nor, whadya doin' with him?: He panted, holding his shoulder, "c'mon with me."

Norway slid up the wall and went the opposite way down the hall despite Denmark's calls for him to come back.

-

"Y'd'n't own me," Sweden rumbled, rising from his chair, "Y'c'n't force me t'do anyth'ng."

"The hell I can't!" Denmark shouted, jumping up. Norway dodged the Dane's chair as it fell backward and escaped into the corridor. He looked for Finland, unsure of where he might be found; Norway hadn't heard what meaningless housekeeping task Denmark had ordered for him today.

He found the nation pulling a rolled up rug down the hall. There was a broom wedged under Finland's arm. "Oh, Master Norway," the Finn called when they made eye contact, "How are you?"

"Please don't call me Master," Norway replied coldly; he was beginning to detest the title. "What are you doing?"

"Denmark ordered me to clean all the rugs," Finland showed him the broom. Norway didn't nod or make any statement of having understood. "I take them outside and beat the dirt out them." Norway nodded this time. "I just finished this one and was bringing it back."

"You do this all by yourself?" Norway began following as Finland picked the rug up again. Finland nodded. They walked along in silence until they reached Norway's bedroom.

"Tino, wait," he said, standing between Finland and the door, "tell me another story." The command was missing altogether from his voice; it sounded almost like a plea.

"Why?" Finland asked with a nervous laugh. The memory of what had happened the last time he'd stopped working to tell a story was fresh in his mind. "I-I don't have any more Norwegian stories."

"Then tell me one of yours," Norway took a step forward; Finland staggered back, "Tell me about your hero."

"My-" Finland thought, "I don't know; his is a very long story."

"We have nothing but time," Norway whispered.

Finland glanced to him, then down the hall both ways, listening for Denmark; he began in a voice low and strong:  
"Mastered by desire impulsive, by a mighty inward urging, I am ready now for singing, ready to begin the chanting of our nation's ancient folk-song, handed down from by-gone ages. In my mouth the words are melting, from my lips the tones are gliding, from my tongue they wish to hasten; when my willing teeth are parted, when my ready mouth is opened, songs of ancient wit and wisdom hasten from me not unwilling."

He told of the Water Mother and the creation of the land and sky and stars, of Väinämöinen who tore himself from the Water Mother and floated in the sea until he hit land. How he sowed the forests. How Väinämöinen earned a bride in a singing competition and that same maiden drowned herself and her brother planned to kill Väinämöinen.

"If thou slayest Väinämöinen, ancient son of Kalevala," The Finn warned in the quiet but firm voice of the lad's mother, "Then alas! all joy will vanish, perish all our wondrous singing." The brother instead shot the wizard's horse, and he was thrown into a river which carried him far to the distant land of Pohjola.

The sounds of Denmark and Sweden fighting were lost to the pair as they had both escaped to the land of Kalevala, a world of great power and greater men, if for only a short time.

"As the years passed," Finland paused at the sound of a crash somewhere nearby, "Väinämöinen recognized his waning powers, empty-handed, heavy-hearted, sang his farewell song to Northland."

"Where do ya think you're going?" Denmark's voice bellowed from around the corner as Sweden came into view, dashing down the corridor, laden down with supplies. Both nations froze and shuffled against the wall as he flew by. "I told ya to get back here!" Denmark appeared at the far end of the hall. When Norway looked back, he saw Finland jogging in Sweden's wake. Denmark rushed after them. Norway waited before rushing along as well.

He found Denmark standing at the gate of the castle's outer wall, barking out orders for guards to follow Sweden and Finland. Norway strained to see in the dying light, but the two were nearly to the forest; they could safely hide there.

"Get back inside, Nor," Denmark growled, grabbing the reins that were handed to him. Norway didn't move, but kept gazing at the forest. "I said go back inside," The Dane grabbed the front of Norway's shirt and shook him to attention. Norway's eyes snapped onto Denmark's and stayed there.

The Dane must have seen something he liked in Norway's eyes because he grinned and released the other nation. "Go." He rushed out the gate in a flash, leaving Norway standing in the tumult of guards.

And though the gate of the castle was wide open as parties were streaming out to pursue the fugitives, Norway turned back and reentered the castle, disappointed that he could not hear the end of Finland's story.

Notes:  
-Title comes from the sagas written about Olaf I by Oddr Snorrason  
-Iceland's poem is an excerpt from "The Edda of Sæmund"  
-Rather than make you read the entire Kalevala, I just took a couple excerpts from the poem


End file.
